


bewitched by the flapping of your wings

by gunwoong (sessrumnir)



Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: (sort of?), Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst, CW: Implied/Referenced Bullying, CW: Mass Shooting, CW: Suicidal Tendencies, Friends to Lovers, Geonhak-centric, Gun Violence, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22741372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sessrumnir/pseuds/gunwoong
Summary: Geonhak is dying.It’s a weird conclusion to come to, but it’s what occurs to him in that moment. Too soon, his mind supplies, unhelpfully, as he feels the pain shoot up his body like a Christmas tree getting lit up from bottom to top. This is the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong way to die. Not that there is a right one, he thinks in the second all of these thoughts cross his mind. But this isn’t it. This is wrong. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen.(inspired by the modified matrix move inthis particular performance of valkyrie. yeah. THAT one.)
Relationships: Kim Geonhak | Leedo/Kim Youngjo | Ravn
Comments: 21
Kudos: 85





	bewitched by the flapping of your wings

**Author's Note:**

> I love all their little modifications to the matrix move, but this one in particular is my favorite. the drama of it all! the implications! I just had to write something with it, even if my writing skills are not enough to bring this plot to life. 
> 
> big thanks to jenny for being my enabler. ily.
> 
> title from valkyrie!

Geonhak is dying.

It’s a weird conclusion to come to, but it’s what occurs to him in that moment. _Too soon_ , his mind supplies, unhelpfully, as he feels the pain shoot up his body like a Christmas tree getting lit up from bottom to top. This is the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong way to die. Not that there is a right one, he thinks in the second all of these thoughts cross his mind. But this isn’t it. This is wrong. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. 

He crumbles just as the rest of the air he has on his lungs escapes through his mouth in what he assumes is his last breath.

* * *

Finding a passion was hard enough. Finding a second one after the first failed him was impossible.

Looking back, that was stupid of him. He was young, in his early 20s—surely there was still time, still a place for him in this whole wide world. Someone thought so. The one person who had always been there for him believed in him, in what he could accomplish. Geonhak chose to ignore him, dumbly, stupidly. He thought he knew so much, for some reason. With no faith left in him, religious or otherwise, he was empty. There was no place for him, he was so sure of it—he was naive, like all young people are when they turn 20, certain he didn’t know anything except for _that_. He had no place, no hope. He started living day by day. 

The police academy was the wrong choice, although he didn’t see it at first. He got through a year of training before he decided to leave. That was the second time he had to hear the disappointed tone in his father’s voice, who never said anything directly, but said enough with his eyes. 

“If you think that’s what’s best,” his father said. Again. Once at 16, and again at 21. 

He didn’t _know_ what was best, actually.

That one year in police academy was enough to make him miserable. The harsh routine, the unfriendliness of the place; the fact that he couldn’t tell his mirror reflection one single reason for him to be doing that. He’d get up in the morning, get into his uniform and go through the motions like an empty vessel, responding to orders and showing up on time, not really sure what was the point of it all.

If only Geonhak had listened to him.

* * *

There is blood everywhere.

That’s what he thinks when he hits the ground. It’s way too much blood—he hasn’t seen that much maybe ever, in his entire life. Nothing in police academy prepared him for this. Nothing prepared him to be sitting in a pool of his own blood. But he figures nothing can prepare one for that. 

He must still be breathing, but there’s something wrong with his airways. He tries to inhale, chokes, coughs up blood. Red, tainted blood. It soaks the clothes he’s staring at, black as they are. The blood feels warm and weird dripping down his chin; he can’t taste it, not when he’s having trouble breathing. Everything hurts. He doesn’t know where pain ends and his own body starts. He _is_ pain. He has become pain.

That’s a very shitty way to die.

* * *

“You could come with me, you know.”

Youngjo looked expectantly at him from the top of his bowl. They were over at Youngjo’s tiny, rented studio, that currently smelled of onions and beef stew. There was enough food in front of them to feed a small army. Geonhak was busy chewing a mouthful of meat, so he stared at Youngjo for a second too long. The anxiety in his eyes should’ve given Geonhak a hint that he had been meaning to say that for a while.

“Me?”

“Yeah! It’d be so much more fun with you there,” Youngjo said, still watching him, expectation written all over his face. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he waited, and waited, and waited.

“I don’t think so,” Geonhak mumbled. He was looking at his own food, avoiding Youngjo’s eyes, so he missed the way Youngjo’s smile faltered on his face. “I don’t know what I’d do there. I don’t even speak English.”

“So? You can learn it there. You’re a fast learner.”

“I don’t have the money for it,” Geonhak still wouldn’t look up. 

Youngjo took a moment to choose his next words. “I could stay, too.”

That made Geonhak look up at him, frowning. “What?” He said, nearly spitting out the food in his mouth. “No. Why would you do that?”

“We could make music. The two of us,” there was a hopeful glint in Youngjo’s eyes. He leaned forward, talking excitedly but in hushed tones, like he always did. “We don’t even have to find an agency, we could just make our own music, release it online. We’d start from the ground up. Find our own place.”

Geonhak stared at him, incredulous. Youngjo had been planning his move to the United States since they were in high school, when Geonhak was a scrawny freshman and Youngjo the quiet junior ready to shield him from the never-ending teasing he got from his classmates. He used to daydream about moving there definitely, but with time his plans changed to smaller goals: first a college degree from NYU that didn’t happen, now a year-long music course that promised to immerse young talent from overseas into New York’s busy artistic scene. He had been saving up and planning the whole thing for nearly two years. To even suggest canceling that sounded insane to Geonhak’s ears.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Youngjo didn’t try to hide the way his shoulders dropped this time. “Why not?”

“You’re going to America. You’re studying music in New York. You can’t just not go.”

“I can.”

Geonhak huffed. “ _Why_ would you do that?”

Youngjo hesitated. He opened his mouth and closed it again, licking his lips. “Because I want to. I want to make music with you, I think we have a good chance of—”

“But I don’t want to,” Geonhak said. Youngjo froze, staring at him. 

It was a lie. Geonhak loved music, and he loved making music with Youngjo even more. He loved _Youngjo_ himself even more. The idea of going to America with him would’ve been much more enticing had Geonhak not been spiraling down, convincing himself that he was not worth anyone’s trouble. Right then, it sounded mad to him—why would Youngjo want him to be a deadweight to him, in New York, of all places? No, Youngjo had a bright future ahead. He had all the potential to be a bigshot producer, rapper, singer, model, whatever he eventually set his mind to, and Geonhak couldn’t let him just drop that dream, all his plans like that. Much less because of Geonhak.

“You don’t?” Youngjo asked.

Geonhak tried to ignore the hurt in Youngjo’s tone. “Nope. I’m not cut out for it. You are, though. You should go. Actually, I’m gonna drive you to the airport myself. But you gotta promise you’re gonna introduce me to Rihanna when you’re all famous and important.”

Youngjo laughed, but it lacked the usual brightness behind it. He tried to talk about it again that night, and once again days later, but Geonhak wouldn’t let him get far. He was adamant. Youngjo was going. He was staying. End of story.

* * *

“Why did you do that?”

The voice is frantic, desperate, but it warms Geonhak. It’s getting colder around him, so the warmth is welcome. He tries to shrink within himself, but moving hurts. 

He hears it again, “ _Why did you do that?”_ He knows that voice. He loves that voice. It somehow, miraculously, through the haze, manages to calm him down. Maybe he’s dying. He probably is. But Youngjo is there, so it’s ok, really.

* * *

After Youngjo left for New York, Geonhak tried a couple of different things. He used his degree to teach, but it didn’t really work out. He landed a job as a fitness instructor, and a part-time one as a bouncer at a nightclub, and it was working for him, sort of. He was able to pay his bills, barely, which was a victory in and of itself. But it was also boring, and uncomfortable, and there was always that itch reminding him that he wasn’t doing enough. Nothing was enough. He wasn’t enough, his life seemed to say. He didn’t know how to quiet that voice down.

Until one day an opportunity arrived by way of a smiley, teasing Seoho. 

They had met in college a few years back, and after running into each other for the third time without trying to, they started to slowly build a friendship. Seoho was feisty, easily excitable, and an excellent gaming and gym partner. They continued to be friends after graduation, which wasn’t hard—they still played games together, and still hit the gym together, and sometimes Geonhak would tag along to Seoho’s soccer games with his friends.

It was a Saturday, and they were in Geonhak’s apartment, fresh from the gym. Geonhak had cooked them a quick meal, and they were eating on the couch, watching a rerun of a baseball game from the week before. Then Seoho asked, casually, “Are you happy with your jobs?”

Geonhak shrugged, taking a swig of the beer Seoho had brought. He winced. He really hated beer. “It pays.”

“Does it pay well?”

Geonhak snorted. That was answer enough.

“They’re looking for someone at work,” Seoho said, still so nonchalant Geonhak paid him no heed. He would question himself later for that. “Where I work, I mean. If you’re interested I can put you through.”

“Is it desk work? Because I wouldn’t last a day,” Geonhak replied, eyes glued to the TV. It was Seoho’s turn to snort.

“Definitely _not_ desk work.”

* * *

Geonhak keeps blacking out. He only knows this because he blinked a while ago and when he opened his eyes again, he saw bright lights that weren’t there before. The pain seems to be gone; he feels numb instead, heavy. Weak. This feels weird, and he wishes he could just close his eyes and let it go. Let it end. It’s still so hard to breathe. He blinks, and the world vanishes again.

* * *

Seoho didn’t work for his father like he had originally told Geonhak, it turns out.

He _did_ work for a company, but Geonhak was surprised to find out it wasn’t your usual run-of-the-mill company. It was a shell business, hiding an intricate network of talented individuals with a specific set of skills. The kind of skills that need silencers and bulletproof vests.

It wasn’t mafia, Seoho assured him. It wasn’t exactly legal, but it wasn’t completely unlawful either—Seoho didn’t know much himself, as he didn’t have enough clearance, but he knew enough to know the government was aware of the organization. 

(“ _Organization_? Do you really call it that?”

“What else would I call it? Secret Organized Network Of Guns For Hire?”

“Fair.”)

It was a hard pillow to swallow at first. Geonhak wasn’t expecting one of his closest friends to be some sort of secret agent, much less Seoho—friendly, smile for days Seoho, who would purposefully lose matches when playing LoL just to piss off 13 year-olds on the internet—and it took him some time to come to terms with it. Seoho was patient. There was no rush, he said, because it wasn’t like there was a hiring process with a due date stamped on it. The opportunity was there. It was up to Geonhak to take it, or not.

They were looking for strength, Seoho told him. Someone strong, agile, young. Discreet, not prone to oversharing his life on social media. Geonhak checked all the boxes. It should be better than carding teens with fake IDs at the club, Seoho argued; it would also pay much, much more. So much more, Geonhak thought Seoho was joking at first, but he wasn’t. What Geonhak got from his two jobs in a year, he’d get in a month.

“And that’s while you’re training,” Seoho explained. “Once you’re actually hired, it’s more.”

But it wasn’t the money that convinced him (although that definitely helped). Geonhak knew this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Suddenly he had something to be intrigued about. Was this it? Was this his place in the world? 

It didn’t sound like it, but he didn’t have anywhere else to go, either.

He took the job. He didn’t know what was waiting for him, and he feared he was making a big mistake. After many meetings, interviews and eerily sterile offices, he was finally shown into an indoor shooting range. He was the only one there, aside from his newly appointed instructor. As the woman showed him how to hold the gun and pose his shoulders, Geonhak wondered, not for the last time, if that choice would cost him his life.

* * *

He dreams, or maybe hallucinates (or, his Catholic upbringing would suggest, maybe he _sees_ ), what he thinks is an angel. It’s bright, too bright, and he can’t seem to get his eyes to focus. But there’s a figure next to him. It’s tall, imposing, and it has wings that span wide. Geonhak feels the figure looming over him; it does nothing to help with the numbness, or the haziness, but it’s there. Like a guardian angel, but not really. 

Geonhak knows his guardian angel, after all. He took two bullets for him.

* * *

In his first year as an agent, Geonhak got enough assignments to get him traveling all over the country—and twice out of the country. Despite what his six-month training period suggested, he wasn’t asked to kill anyone. He wondered, throughout that entire year, if he would be able to do it. If push came to shove, if he was assigned an assassination, could he actually go through with it? He wanted to think _no_ , he could never. But he had been trained for it. He had signed up for the job. He tried not to think too much about what that meant already.

Most of his cases were file retrieval. Sometimes he had to use brute force, knock someone out. There were a couple of staged scenes, where he had to make sure someone was at the right place, at the right time, willingly or not. He gathered, in that first year, that this was a much more political work than what James Bond’s movies would have you believe. Sometimes the result of his work would show up on the evening news—politicians found in motel beds they swore they didn’t choose to lie on, leaked police files that incriminated corrupt officers, cover-ups that seemed plausible enough to the innocent eye. Sometimes, it was too covert to even make it to the news. He used his fists. He got bloody noses, bruises, a cut right below his elbow. It wasn’t always easy, but it could’ve been harder, he supposed.

He learned how to use a gun, and then several other types of guns. He learned about poison, sedatives, drugs. He knew Seoul like the back of his hand, now. He was still good friends with Seoho, and he made other friends, too, like Dongju, a young agent with a piercing gaze and incredible disguise and make-up skills.

There was just one piece of the puzzle still missing. Someone he hadn’t spoken with for over a year, now. Geonhak thought he would be able to forget, at some point, but the truth was that he never did. Youngjo was still in his thoughts, all the time; there was a Youngjo-shaped hole in his chest that nothing could distract him from.

They didn’t fight, or choose to keep a distance. If anything, Geonhak chose for them. He felt like such a big burden, an anchor dragging Youngjo to the bottom of a bottomless ocean, that he started letting the messages pile up. He ignored his calls. He let Youngjo’s birthday go by without acknowledging it. It was painful, but he felt that it was necessary. Youngjo was building a new life for himself, and really, Geonhak didn’t think he was that important to be included in it. 

He had means to track almost anyone in the world if he wanted to, but he still chose to use the most common stalking mechanism he knew: Instagram. Youngjo didn’t update much. Most of his pics were of his dog, and his Instastories were always a short track, a new beat, or something of the sort. It wasn’t much, but Geonhak was pretty certain he didn’t want to input Youngjo’s name in any kind of search within the organization systems. He didn’t know what he was scared of—maybe he knew since then that this had an expiration date, this entire playing spy thing. Maybe he knew that the moment he took the job, no one associated with him would be safe anymore. Maybe he knew _he_ wasn’t safe. He had an expiration date, too

(In hindsight, those decisions—getting that job, removing himself from Youngjo’s life—were more than just self-destructive. They were telling. Geonhak wasn’t expecting a future anymore.)

He always left Youngjo’s Instagram account without liking anything. Youngjo’s last message to him, from about nine months before, was still on his Kakaotalk, unanswered.

_K Youngjo: I miss you so much_.

* * *

When he opens his eyes again, it’s because of the pain.

He’s lying down, and it feels as if his back is on fire. He tries to use words, but he doesn’t know if he manages to articulate anything; it feels like he just groans, but he can’t tell, either. His eyes close of their own accord, and Geonhak drifts back to darkness again. 

* * *

Geonhak’s assignments got progressively riskier as he settled into his new life. He did his best to not overthink it, not worry about the people he left unconscious in his wake. It was after his one year evaluation that his handler, a short woman who had also been his instructor during his six-months training period, explained what his next assignment was.

“You’re on watch,” Wheein said. “Meaning, you don’t need to do anything. Just follow the action up close, make sure our guys don’t get hold up before carrying it out.”

Geonhak tried to take the folder from her hands, but she pulled it back, looking him in the eye. 

“This is more than what you’re used to. It will get messy.”

She was looking at him with calculating eyes, possibly trying to gauge his reaction. Geonhak felt a twinge of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. 

“Messy how?”

Wheein didn’t answer. She handed him the folder and watched him open it, scanning the few pages within. It wasn’t all there—his assignments were always handed to him in fragments, so if one part somehow found its way into unwanted hands, it wouldn’t contain all the information. But what he saw said plenty already. He looked from the pages to her, trying to school his face into a neutral expression, even though his stomach was turning.

“Why?”

Wheein shook her head minutely. “We don’t ask why, remember?”

She glanced at the wall, so quick Geonhak wouldn’t have noticed it if he weren’t staring straight into her eyes. He knew what she was trying to say. _There are cameras here. Microphones, too. Don’t ask too many questions_. 

That had been one of his first lessons during training. They weren’t supposed to ask why. It wasn’t their place. They were to carry out orders and forget they ever happened in the first place. Geonhak understood that, and he had been content to follow those sets of rules until now. He studied the pages in the folder again and again, collecting the rest of the information he needed from the different sources. Wheein was right. This would get messy. The bloody kind of messy.

He was staring at orders for a shooting. 

An actual shooting. In public.

Geonhak had so many questions, many of which started with _why?_ Why would anyone order that, and why would anyone agree to carry it out? There was a target, but the orders were clear: it was supposed to look like a contained bloodbath. _At least_ two other casualties, so the intended target could be considered one, too. He felt angry, then he felt stupid—did he actually think he was one of the good guys? Had he been thinking of himself as some sort of agent of good, just because he hadn’t been the one with blood on his hands? There would be at least two innocent people dead by the end of that event, and he’d be partially responsible for it.

He tried not to think about it. It was hard not to.

The event was held in open air, which made things infuriatingly easier. It was a clear night. Geonhak had found a spot in a low building just next to the area, where he could watch the movement and still be out of the line of fire. It was all set up. The event itself was an open air talent show of some sort, a fundraiser, with a few illustrious figures in the crowd. It was too easy; Geonhak was restless. He just wanted the night to be over with. He kept looking through his binoculars, scanning the crowd. There were no children there, thankfully, but still, plenty of people who did _not_ deserve to die. There was a duo performing on stage, a couple of guys singing while one of them played the keyboard. It looked too peaceful for what was about to happen. It felt wrong.

Then Geonhak spotted someone in the crowd and felt his stomach drop.

He looked older, more handsome than ever. His hair was longer than when he had last posted a selfie to Instagram months ago. Geonhak’s heart was beating so fast he worried it would break free of his ribcage. 

Youngjo. Youngjo was there. In the crowd.

Geonhak looked at his watch; in less than five minutes, Youngjo could be dead.

The thought alone was enough to send Geonhak running. He moved first, thinking came after. He pulled his phone from his pocket as he ran down the stairs of the building of his stake out, punching the _call_ button on Youngjo’s Kakaotalk chat so hard he nearly sent his phone flying. It rang, and it rang, and it rang, but Youngjo wouldn’t pick up. Geonhak was trying to think of a million things at once: _did he change his Kakao ID? Is he staring at his phone, wondering why I’m calling him? Is he gonna die? Is this my fault?_

When he finally ran out onto the street, Geonhak didn’t stop to make a plan. There was no plan, no _time_ to hatch a plan. All he could do was get to Youngjo, get him out of there, he had to, he absolutely needed to, he couldn’t even imagine—He couldn’t—

Geonhak spotted the guy whose assignment was to open fire against the crowd. He knew him, he had worked with him before, but there was no stopping this. There was no secret walkie-talkie where Geonhak could spit out orders to abort mission, and even if there had been, he had no power in the organization. He wasn’t the one calling the shots. 

The shooter was close to Youngjo, too close. Youngjo was directly in the line of fire. He didn’t know, there was no way for him to know, but Geonhak did, so he ran towards him, pushing people out of his way, not caring if he was attracting attention right now. He couldn’t care less about it. He had one thought in his mind. One word, really:

_Youngjo._

He ran as fast as he could. He saw the shooter pull out his gun from inside his jacket; Youngjo was facing him, his back to Geonhak, but he was distracted, laughing at one joke or another the people with him were telling. Geonhak reached him just in time to see the shooter raise his gun. He pulled Youngjo by the arm, surprising Youngjo. There was no time to pull him away, no time for words. Their eyes met. Youngjo’s eyes widened in recognition, just as the first shot was fired. 

Geonhak reacted immediately, doing what his entire body and soul told him to.

He jumped in front of Youngjo, turning his back to the shooter and shielding Youngjo’s body with his.

* * *

He’s not dead. That’s the first thought through his head when he wakes up again, this time in less pain—but still in pain. He doesn’t know what makes him reach that conclusion, because he could very well be dead, but he knows he’s not. He knows before he opens his eyes that he made it. Somehow, he made it. 

He opens his eyes and takes a few seconds just to breathe. It feels so good to be able to do that. He never realized how much of it he took for granted until now. He breathes, and it hurts just a little, and there’s no blood coming up his throat. His lips feel dry, and he licks them, tentatively. He’s been staring at the ceiling, trying to acquaint himself with the idea of _life_ again, but now he looks around him. 

“Hey,” someone to his right says. 

Geonhak turns his head to the side. Seoho is standing up, but he’s by the window, against the light; he looks like a backlit apparition until Geonhak’s eyes adjust to the brightness coming in through a slit in the heavy curtains. He looks, if anything, like Geonhak’s vision. 

Maybe he did die, after all.

“How are you feeling?” Seoho’s voice is soft, just a bit louder than a whisper. He’s close by the bed now, and Geonhak can see him: tousled hair, wearing the hoodie with their college logo embroidered on it. Geonhak tests his voice by clearing his throat. He feels like drinking his body weight in water from how thirsty he is.

“Like shit,” he croaks out. “Where am I?”

“The hospital, buddy. You gonna fall asleep again? I’m supposed to call the nurse when you wake up for good.”

That feels like a lot of information at once. Geonhak shakes his head to the question; he’s tired, but his head is clearing, slowly but surely. He tries to sit up in bed and groans in pain. 

“Easy,” Seoho reaches quickly to steady him, ends up fluffing the pillow under his head. “I’m gonna call the nurse, hang on a sec.”

Geonhak does his own check-up while Seoho is gone. His body seems to be in one piece, but he can’t move too much without pain shooting up his shoulder blades. He doesn’t even know where the pain is coming from—his muscles? His spine? His lungs? It feels like his entire torso has been cut up in pieces and sewn in again. Which, now that he’s starting to remember that night, might not actually be far from the truth.

After the nurse is gone again, promising to come back later with some food and giving Geonhak’s overall state a thumbs up, Geonhak turns to Seoho.

“The assignment…”

Seoho eyes the open door, walking away from the bed to close it. He comes back to Geonhak’s side. 

“Done. Three casualties.” He pauses. “We thought you were gonna be the fourth.” 

Geonhak doesn’t say anything to that. There’s something he wants to ask, but he doesn’t have to, because Seoho beats him to it.

“Youngjo hyung is fine. Well, physically, anyway. He was very worried about you, though. He rode the ambulance with you and wanted to stay at the hospital with you, so it was hard trying to convince him to let you go. We had to move you to a different hospital because he gave your name in the first one.” 

It’s not hard to imagine, now that Geonhak thinks about it, that his little stunt might have caused the organization to move some things around. He couldn’t be linked to what happened there, and despite not knowing how much media coverage there was for the incident, he figures that the fact that he woke up to Seoho by his bedside and not a couple of police officers is telling enough. 

“Where is he?”

Seoho sighs, “At my place. Made me promise I’d keep him updated. He’s basically threatening to never leave me alone again if I don’t bring you to him once you’re discharged.”

Strangely enough, Geonhak wants to apologize. He’s not sure what exactly he wants to apologize for—nearly dying? Nearly botching the assignment he was entrusted with? Being a nuisance and needing to be transferred with a fake name because he jumped in front of a gun when he was supposed to be nothing more than a ghost at that event? 

“That took guts,” Seoho interrupts his train of thought. He’s looking down at his nails when he says this, but then he meets Geonhak’s eyes. “Jumping in front of him like that. There was footage of it. You saved his life.”

“I couldn’t let him die,” is what Geonhak says, which is the most honest truth.

“I know,” Seoho sounds… sad? “Yeah, no, I get it. I’m sorry I brought you into this.”

It’s such a left turn that Geonhak takes a few seconds to compute what he’s talking about. “What do you mean? The job? Hyung, I chose this.”

“I know. But I shouldn’t have offered you the position in the first place,” Seoho rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. Only now does Geonhak notice how tired he looks. He wonders how long he’s been at his side while Geonhak was unconscious. How long was Geonhak unconscious, anyway? “You were… not in the right place. I thought this would be good, that it would keep your mind off things, off him.”

_Youngjo_.

“That was incredibly dumb. I’m sorry.”

Geonhak considers that. “I made a choice, hyung.”

“Ugh, stop being so _nice_ all the time! Curse at me, for once!” Seoho only half jokes, making Geonhak smile. “Youngjo hyung sure did.”

“He cursed at you? Why?”

Seoho makes a face. “I kinda… had to explain some things to him. He wouldn’t let me go! He wanted to know why you had to be transferred, why you couldn’t have visitors. He asked a _lot_ of questions. So annoying.”

“You _told_ him?”

“I had to! I didn’t want to speak for you, I don’t know how much you wanted him to know, but he—he looked so broken, Geonhak. It was so sad. He was so confused, and scared, I guess. And you know how he gets when it’s about you, I’m honest to god scared to step foot into my apartment without some good news, he might kill me. Well, maybe not kill. Maim,” Seoho looks pensive, as if considering the possibilities.

“How much does he know?”

Seoho looks at him. “Enough. He knows about our jobs, he knows you were working that night.”

Geonhak closes his eyes, briefly. He wants to see Youngjo, make sure he’s really alright, that Seoho isn’t lying and that he really did make out of it alive, but at the same time… This wasn’t how he expected to see him again. How can he even begin to explain himself? Would Youngjo let him explain himself, at all? 

“Are you going back?” 

Seoho’s words bring Geonhak back to the present. He opens his eyes. “Going back?”

“To work. For them. Us.” 

There’s a pause as Geonhak considers it. “I… don’t know.”

“I don’t think you should,” Seoho says, as merrily as if he were commenting on the weather. He doesn’t add to that, just fishes something from the back pocket of his jeans and hands it to him. Geonhak’s phone. The screen is cracked. “I’ve charged it and added Youngjo’s new number.”

“How—It’s password protected?” Geonhak says, turning on the device and confirming that yes, his password is still active.

Seoho scoffs, “ _Please_.” He stretches and announces he’s gonna get something to eat, and that he will be back in a couple of hours. Geonhak watches him go, only really looking down at his phone when Seoho is gone. 

There are a couple of notifications, but nothing that really stands out. He answers his sister on Kakaotalk—she’s asking him about a distant cousin’s birthday, which reassures him that his face hasn’t been on the news and his family hasn’t been alerted to what happened—then stares at his contacts. There’s a newly added contact titled _K Youngjo 2020_.

His finger hovers the call button, but lands on the messaging icon.

_I’m so sorry. I can explain. Talk to you soon. -Geonhak_

Then he turns off his phone again.

He’s at the hospital for another three long, torturous days. It’s a lot of bland food and humiliating visits to the bathroom, which makes him long for his own apartment and his instant noodles like never before. Seoho is there most of the time, including during the night. They talk mostly about amenities, and Geonhak is grateful for that. He’s restless, and he knows why. Seoho asks him about his phone when he comes back that first day, says Youngjo tried calling him, but when Geonhak says he turned it off, he doesn’t push him.

When he’s finally discharged, he’s still walking on unsteady legs, like his limbs forgot how to walk after days in bed. Seoho helps him to the car, and drives him to his place—Seoho’s, not Geonhak’s. It’s a silent ride with Geonhak lost in thought. So much so that when Seoho unlocks his front door, it feels like they’ve just left the hospital not a minute before.

Seoho’s place is big, definitely bigger than Geonhak’s. As they walk through the foyer, Geonhak can hear muffled, static voices coming from a TV turned on in the living room. He hears footsteps just as he walks into the room, and in a second Youngjo is there, standing in front of him, staring at him.

Geonhak feels so much at once, he doesn’t know where to start parsing it.

Youngjo looks both worried and relieved at once; his eyes are big, and so are the bags under them. His hair is wet, like he just got out of the shower.

“Geonhakie,” he says, and then he steps forward like he wants to hug Geonhak but thinks better of it, eyeing his torso, hands frozen in place. “Can I—Will it hurt if I—?”

“Just don’t pat my back,” Geonhak says on autopilot. It’s enough for Youngjo.

He hugs Geonhak with so much care, it’s almost as painful as if he had patted his stitches, but in a different way. One of Youngjo’s hands is on Geonhak’s nape, the other on his hip. He buries his face on the curve of Geonhak’s neck and shoulder, and Geonhak wants to _cry_. Legitimately, ridiculously, cry. He hears Seoho clearing his throat and retreating into the kitchen, but they don’t as much as acknowledge him. It feels like Youngjo holds him there for an eternity, until Geonhak remembers to use his arms to hug him back by the waist.

“I missed you,” Youngjo says against his skin. Geonhak shivers, involuntarily, his whole body experiencing the moment with an intensity he wasn’t expecting. “I missed you so much. Why did you do that?”

When Geonhak doesn’t answer, Youngjo pulls back to look him in the eyes, but his hand is still holding Geonhak (gently, oh so gently) by the back of his neck. His eyes are misty, searching Geonhak’s face.

“You could’ve died,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Geonhak nods. “I know. I’m sorry.”

That gets a teary half smile from Youngjo. He looks like he wants to say something but instead shakes his head; Geonhak gets the impression he’s trying not to cry. They stare at each other, a million things left unsaid, and another million spoken in a clarity no words could attempt to achieve. Geonhak can’t quite believe he’s here, holding Youngjo. So many things went wrong, for so long, that he doesn’t know how to deal now that they’ve gone _right_. 

“Come on, let’s get you comfortable,” Youngjo says, finally letting go of Geonhak only to hold his hand. He helps Geonhak sit on the couch, adjusts the cushions to support his lower back. That gives Geonhak enough time to really _see_ him; the bags under his eyes, the oversized sweater that Geonhak doesn’t recognize, the length of his hair, below his ears. He has an industrial piercing now on his left ear. It’s a different Youngjo than the one he remembers from years ago, but it’s still so obviously him. Geonhak would recognize those eyes anywhere, that jawline, that Adam’s apple. “How’s that?” Youngjo asks him, voice so unapologetically soft. So Youngjo.

“Good. Thank you.” Geonhak stares, and stares, not quite believing still that he’s here. They’re both here. They’re ok. “Why did you come back?” He asks, hoping that’s a neutral enough starting point. 

Youngjo sits next to him on the couch, turned to him, so close that his knee touches Geonhak’s thigh. He missed this; he missed Youngjo’s proximity. 

“I got my degree,” Youngjo explains, shrugging. “I didn’t think there was much for me there.”

“Ah,” is all Geonhak thinks to say. 

It feels surreal, that’s the truth. To be there, alive, sitting with Youngjo. Youngjo, the one constant in his life; the one person who was always there for him, who always believed in him. Youngjo, who stuck by his side during his darkest hours, who was there to pick him up and fight for him. He reaches out to hold Youngjo’s hand in his. Their hands lock together perfectly, and Geonhak stares at them, so relieved but so anxious at the same time.

“Remember graduation day?” Youngjo asks him, making Geonhak look up at him. “Your high school graduation, I mean.”

Geonhak makes a face. “Yeah. Still not my best moment.” 

Youngjo chuckles. “You hid in that bathroom for so long, I thought you had left. I seriously thought you had ditched me and gone home. I laughed it off with you but I was… very upset, actually. Angry, I thought, but now I think I was more scared than anything.”

“You never mentioned that.”

“It wasn’t—I didn’t think it was important. When you called and explained, and told me where you were, I—“ Youngjo pauses, smiles at their hands. It feels like he’s avoiding Geonhak’s eyes momentarily. “I just wanted you to enjoy it, your last day at school, you know? Even if it wasn’t the best experience, it was still our place, our turf. I didn’t want to fight, or accuse you of abandoning me, or anything of the sort. I just wanted you to enjoy yourself. I wanted to have fun. But I should’ve said something, shouldn’t I? Because you eventually abandoned me for good.”

“Youngjo—“

Youngjo looks him in the eyes, shaking his head with a teary smile. “It’s fine. You’re here now. I just wish you hadn’t gone. Why, Geonhakie?”

That feels like a charged question. There are a lot of _why’_ s, a lot of things Geonhak should probably explain. He owes him that much. But his throat is clogged up, and he doesn’t know where to begin. He brings Youngjo’s hand up to his lips, giving it a soft kiss. He doesn’t want to open his eyes and find Youngjo’s hurt eyes staring back at him, but Youngjo cups his face and lifts his head up, gently. This feels new but very familiar at the same time. Geonhak opens his eyes.

“I missed you,” Youngjo says, yet again. He’s so close. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” Geonhak’s voice is low, so deep it rumbles in his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

“Hey,” Youngjo pulls his face closer, kisses his cheek. “It’s ok, we’re ok. You’re ok.” 

“It’s not ok, though,” Geonhak sobs. The words come flooding up, spilling from his lips before he can stop them. “This isn’t ok. I shouldn’t have ignored your calls, I shouldn’t have pulled away, I—I missed you so much, Youngjo, I thought I was going crazy… I think I _did_ go crazy and that’s why I did this, why I took this job, I wanted to feel something, but it was so wrong, and you almost died, and I would’ve died too because I can’t—“

Youngjo pulls him in a gentle hug, letting Geonhak rest his head against the crook of his neck, a couple of tears finally spilling free. Geonhak hides from the world, lets go of the weight that has been hurting his shoulders with Youngjo’s hand rubbing circles on his lower back. It feels like a lifetime has passed before he calms down enough to pull back, wiping away at the tears staining his face.

He’s surprised to see Youngjo has been crying too, red-rimmed eyes staring back at him. His hands reach up to wipe Youngjo’s cheeks. Youngjo reacts by closing his eyes and leaning into his touch. They’re broken, and hurting, and Geonhak wants to fix it so bad. He wants to make it all go away—the pain, the time lost, the tears. He sees Youngjo opening his eyes again, and kisses him on the lips. There’s no thought behind it, he just does. Youngjo responds immediately, and Geonhak feels something _click_. Like this has been one of the few missing pieces of the puzzle; like some part of him has finally found what it had been looking for. 

Youngjo breaks apart to smile, saying against his lips, “We’ll be alright.” 

* * *

They are alright.

It’s not easy, because nothing ever is. Geonhak leaves his job behind, takes a few months to glue the pieces of himself back together. Therapy certainly helps, and so does learning how to address things he has been bottling up for so long. It’s not an overnight thing, but there’s progress. Geonhak feels lighter than he has in years. That’s definitely a start.

Not to mention that with Youngjo by his side, he feels like he can do anything.

Youngjo is trailing a pattern on his back. It’s Sunday, and the sun has been up for a while, but they’re still in bed. Geonhak is lying on his stomach while Youngjo’s fingers draw lines on his naked back. Geonhak can feel him tracing the scars, still very obvious against his skin. He has been told they’ll eventually fade until they’re barely noticeable, but for now they’re ever present. He doesn’t mind Youngjo touching them. Youngjo’s touch has never brought him anything but peace. 

“It kinda looks like you had wings,” Youngjo muses.

Geonhak hums in response. He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.

“My guardian angel.” 

That gets Geonhak to turn his head around, meeting Youngjo’s eyes. He looks gorgeous in the morning light, all messy bed hair and broad shoulders. 

“I thought _you_ were _mine_ ,” Geonhak argues. 

“I never saved your life.”

“You haven’t been paying attention, then.”

Youngjo’s eyes go incredibly soft. He kisses Geonhak’s shoulder, then his shoulder blades, until finally he kisses the marks on his back. Youngjo’s body feels warm against his. It has been months since he learned the feel and the taste of his skin, but it doesn’t stop him from enjoying it like it’s the first time every time.

Before they can get too into it, Geonhak’s phone vibrates on the bedside table. He groans, but it’s Youngjo who says with a grin, “Seoho’s waiting, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Geonhak groans once more for good measure, then turns around to sit up. “That’s why I suggested we go in the afternoon. He’s insufferable in the morning. The gym is open all day _and_ night, why does he need to go in the morning?” 

“It doesn’t hurt to enjoy the morning sun,” Youngjo says, lazily stretching himself in bed while Geonhak types a quick reply to Seoho. He gets an incredulous glare in return. “What?”

“You never go out in the morning.”

“Of course I do. I walk Sunny every morning.”

“Noon is barely even morning anymore.”

Youngjo stutters, gives up, ends up pouting and hitting him with a pillow, which is answer enough. “Stop being mean. You were calling me an angel not ten minutes ago.” 

“I was wrong. You’re more like a hot vampire that hates the sun,” Geonhak corrects himself, picking out his gym clothes from the closet. “My guardian angel would roast Seoho with me. He’d take my side.”

“I _am_ on your side,” Youngjo complains, pouting ridiculously. It’s still endearing, somehow, which prompts Geonhak to walk over to the bed again long enough to kiss him. Youngjo all but melts into the pillows. “Mm. You think he’d mind if you were a little late?”

“I do. Which makes me want to be late.”

Youngjo laughs. “He’s gonna be so pissed.”

As if on cue, Geonhak’s phone starts vibrating on the table, this time with a call. Youngjo laughs harder when Geonhak lies down on top of him, half dressed, ignoring it completely. 

“I love you,” Youngjo says with the biggest smile on his face as Geonhak deepens the kiss.

And it’s supposed to be just words, just Youngjo happy and still a little bit drunk on sleep showing some affection, but it means so much. Geonhak doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to hear those words and not feel his chest warm, and how everything that keeps threatening to lose balance inside of him aligns at the sound of Youngjo's voice saying that. 

“And I love you,” Geonhak says back, with his mouth, body, and soul.


End file.
